Unneeded
by Jen Littlebottom
Summary: Mahtan has no interest in dwarves. Really. Written because anyone who had to suffer through being Feanor's father-in-law deserves a little more attention. ( Gimli)
1. Unneeded

Disclaimer: I do not own Mahtan or Gimli, or anyone/anywhere else mentioned. They all belong to Tolkien. Think he'd notice if I stole Mahtan?

A/N: Gonnhir, 'stone lord' is a more polite way of saying 'dwarf' than 'stunted one'.  And I think Mahtan doesn't get nearly enough attention, especially as he had to suffer through being Fëanor's father-in-law.

It didn't actually register at first, that the dwarf was actually here.  There were many who had come to the West in the past few years, and Mahtan had ignored them for the first part. There were Sindar, most of whom had no interest in him and his forge, and not a few Noldor, some of whom he even vaguely recognised.  He greeted these if they passed him on the few occasions he ventured beyond the forge and Aulë's halls.  Other than that, he ignored them, and they him, and that was as it should be.

There had been some sort of hubbub at the quays, he understood, but he never paid much attention to such things, and when Aulë had smiled and told him that a child of his had come to Valinor and would be visiting the forge, Mahtan just nodded and cleaned some of his lesser creations off a section of bench to make room.  He had had things to sort out in other parts of the forge, and it was not until one of the other smiths came to him, wanting to know if Mahtan really didn't mind having the Gonnhir in his forge, that he'd realised that Aulë had been speaking literally.

-----

He really didn't mind.  The dwarf spent much time talking to Aulë, and quite a bit talking to another Elf, a flighty Sindarin fellow who turned up and dragged him away from the forge on a regular basis.  Neither of these things fell under the category of 'interacting with Mahtan', and thus they could hardly be annoying to him.  Mahtan liked to sit in a corner of the forge, watching things, absentmindedly polishing away or making lengths of chain for pendants or other tasks that he could do without thinking.  It gave him time to watch.

He'd always been curious about the stunted ones.  He'd heard some who had met them in the lands of the east and returned speak of them harshly, but he had discounted those stories.  Along with the fanciful tales that they were made of stone, and that their woman looked like their men.  Mahtan decided privately that if you were to make a dwarf out of anything, it would be iron – it leant itself to the making of things that were strong, not delicate, and Mahtan had more skill at metalwork than stonework as it was.

Perhaps if he remembered sometime, he would ask his lord what it was he had made the dwarves out of.

-----

The dwarf never worked on anything when people were watching.  Sometimes he and Aulë would disappear into one of the forging rooms and would reappear some time later, but Mahtan never got to see what he made.

It drove him quite mad.  He thought of things like that at times like this, when the forge was emptied due to some festival or other.  Nerdanel tried to get him to come along, every time, and he refused, every time.  It was a sort of tradition that they had, and he knew his daughter felt better for having at least tried to coax him away from the forge.

He put another twist in the sculpture he was playing with, tilting his head to try and find the best angle to look at it from.  Like a flower, he thought, only it was all sharp corners and angles, a flower with teeth.  An awkward, ugly, thing, and he liked it.  Copper was so responsive to the attentions of a smith; Mahtan had never grown tired of playing with it.  With a shrug, he took the sculpture in a pair of tongs and let it sink back into the melting-pot, watching it fold in upon itself.

"What did you do that for?"

Of course, there would be only one other person who would choose forge over festival.  He refused to look the dwarf in the eye, instead settling on staring at the greying hair and long beard.  There were braids in both, decorated with copper bands, and Mahtan grinned at them.  "Do what?"

Instead of answering, the dwarf said, "There was nothing wrong with it."

He shrugged.  "Why do you think I did it?"  Mahtan had long ago learnt if you tried to explain yourself to people, they just kept asking questions.  Make your comments as obtuse and irritating as possible, and they'd go away faster.

"So that nobody could have it.  So that no-one but you would ever see it, touch it, know it existed."  The dwarf was smirking, he knew without even looking, and he could feel his jaw drop.  The point of asking questions like that was that people were _not_ supposed to answer.  And they most definitely were not meant to get it _right_.  "So far I've heard people say that you are stubborn, crazy, obsessed, reclusive, and a right bastard.  Thought you sounded like the kind of Elf I ought to get to know."

This time, Mahtan met the dwarf's gaze.  "They're wrong.  I'm not crazy."  He hopped up and away from the melting-pot, choosing a key from the numerous ones he kept in his pockets by touch, and unlocked a cabinet that lay along the back wall, each deep drawer hiding an ingot wrapped in velvet.  The lock was there only to stop people touching his things; no, no-one in the forge would stoop to stealing, but they seemed to think it was fine to poke their fingers at things that did not belong to them.

In the back, third drawer down, two across, it was.  A failed experiment from a few hundred years ago.  A swirl of iron and something that gleamed almost like mithril but was not; they had refused to mix and Mahtan had never had the heart to do anything with the resultant chunk.  It was a little larger than what could comfortably be held in one hand, and cold and heavy.  "What would you do with this?" It wasn't really a test so much as it was curiosity, and he watched the dwarf as he passed it from hand to hand.  Muscles strained along the dwarf's arms; Mahtan would not have thought less of him if he'd chosen to take it in both hands, but it appeared that pride was not a flaw limited to the Quendi.  He realised, also, that he'd forgotten to ask Aulë what he'd made the dwarves of.

"Nothing _to it.  With it – you could make a cradle of iron for it, or work it into the base of a statue, or anything of that nature.  Put it on display.  I _wouldn't_" and the dwarf's eyes were bright and piercing "hide it away where nobody could see it, locked in a cabinet at the back of an Elf-forge."  He handed it back, and Mahtan grasped it with both hands, staring._

"It was locked away because no-one ever saw the beauty of it before."  He turned it over in his hands, once or twice, caressing the surface.  "And now it is yours." Holding it out, he realised this was probably the longest conversation he'd had in years with someone who was not Nerdanel.  Most strange.

"Elves are fools." snorted the dwarf, and grinned up at Mahtan.  "They cannot see the beauty that is right under their noses, just because it has nothing to do with trees or songs or any of that nonsense."  What are you made of, Mahtan wanted to ask.  From what strange materials did my master forge you, and why do you look at me like that?  Instead he looked away.  "Come on." said the dwarf, "I'll make a stand for it for now, so that it can be displayed properly."

_But I am not needed for that_, Mahtan thought, but the thought was lost amongst a flurry of other words, an argument over which way would be best to display their trinket, which materials to use, and all the minute details of the design.  It was in a lull in this most enjoyable battle of wits, while the dwarf bent over the workbench sketching out the plan with long, florid strokes of charcoal, that it came back to him.  _I am not needed for this_.

I am not needed for this, but he wanted me here anyway.


	2. Vanity

A/N: This chapter leans a bit more towards actual slashiness, but it's still very, very, PG.  As always, it is all the creation of Tolkien; I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Mahtan keeps his hair bound back if he's working by the forge; vanity is not worth setting oneself on fire for.  But whenever he gets the chance – whether he's taking a break or working away from the flames – he lets it loose, because he _is _vain, at least about this one thing.  He makes combs and circlets of copper and tells himself he is going to give them to Nerdanya, but half the time they mysteriously end up staying in his possession.

"You ought to braid that cursed stuff back," mutters the dwarf (and Mahtan knows his name, yes, but he is still sometimes 'the dwarf' in his mind, the only one in Valinor, after all).  "You're getting hair all over the plans."  And he is _not, and besides Gimli is working on a part of the design, a present for that Sindarin friend of his, that Mahtan's hair is not even touching._

Then the damned dwarf, obviously not content with simply being rude and irritating, tugs a lock of hair hard enough to make Mahtan's eyes water.  "Stop that!" he says, a little louder than he should, and a couple of the smiths on the other side of the room look up before deciding it is best if they pretend the odd pair do not exist.  "Must you be such a…" He can't think of a good enough word, and so finishes up, a trifle lamely, "such a dwarf!"

Gimli chuckles.  "Why are you so obsessed with that hair of yours, anyway?  It's hardly your best feature."

He _feels_ like he should be offended by that, but somehow he's not.  "It's considered quite distinguished among the Quendi, I'll have you know.  Very rare.  Besides which, I am _not_ obsessed."

And the dwarf _roars with laughter.  "And among my people it's as common as muck, so quit your airs.  I've got cousins galore with hair like yours, and none of them let it flop around in that ridiculous fashion."_

"It does not _flop," he mutters, but cannot help but smile at the image of dwarves like Gimli but with red hair like his own.  They go back to the design for a bit, until Mahtan, trying his best to be casual about it, asks, "So what is my best feature, then, Master Dwarf? In your expert opinion."_

A hand slides across his own, squeezing gently.  "Right here.  The rest of you just looks pretty, Elf.  These can look pretty and make themselves useful as well."  The dwarf peers at the pattern.  "Do we really need all those frivolous Elf bits on it?" The question sparks off yet another argument, but the dwarf's hand lingers on his own, warm and steady, and Mahtan does not move away.


	3. The Bafflement of Elves

A/N: As usual, nothing within belongs to me.  This chapter also guest-stars Nerdanel and Legolas.

Nerdanel kept a small house, neat and clean, stranded halfway between the forge and the city of Tirion.  They shared dinner once a week; she knew better than to try and force anything more on her father, and once again Mahtan was late, late, late.  "You know, Nerdanya" he commented as he came in through the door, "if you came back to the forge, to stay with me, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Knowing you, Atar, we'd still have this problem.  It'd just be closer for you to from the forge to the table when you realised you'd forgotten again." She smiled, slipping a plate of warm bread onto the table and returning to the kitchen for the rest of the food.  "And you know why I don't visit the forge anymore.  Too many memories."

He furrowed his brow when she brought the bowls of stew out.  "How late am I this time?"

"A couple of hours or so.  Don't worry about it, I'm used to you by now.  Just eat."  So he did, tearing chunks of bread off to soak up the stew as his stomach reminded him that yes, he was hungry after all.

"I ought to cook for you sometime." he mentioned between mouthfuls of stew and when she responded with a peal of laughter he added, "What? I'll have you know, daughter, that I am quite able to cook.  Just out of practice."

She shook her head, copper braids dancing.  "You'd insist on using on of the forge-fires to cook it, and I'd be picking chunks of metal out of my bread."  He couldn't hold the mock-glare for that long; Nerdanel's giggling was contagious.  "You're in a good mood today, Atar." she added, reaching for another piece of bread and smirking at him.

"And what is that look for, hmm? Am I not allowed to be happy once in a while?"

"Don't _pout_.  Really, you're worse than the twins were, sometimes.  You've been like this ever since you started spending more time with that dwarf.  I can't quite decide whether or not you're just doing it to annoy the Vanyar – Ingwë's gotten himself into a right fuss over one of the Naucalië turning up here. You ought to have seen that Thranduilion facing him down over it.  Priceless."  She caught his glare.  "Fine, why are you doing it, then?"

Mahtan shrugged.  "I have to have a reason now?"

"You cut yourself off from your people, from your family.  This should be a time of renewal, but you are still trapped, obsessing over imagined guilt for crimes that were not yours committed more than three _Ages_ ago."  She spoke with passion, tears in her eyes, but Mahtan felt every word pass over and around him, leaving him unmoved.  "People _talk_, Atar, and even if you don't care how they speak of you, I do.  In Tirion-"

"In Tirion," he murmured, cutting her off, "they speak a language I have forgotten.  They sing songs of things that mean nothing to me, and spend so long calling each other wise they believe it true.  I have found another who speaks in the tongue of Aulë, speaks of the secrets that metal yields to careful hands, and I am content.  Do not begrudge me that."

Nerdanel sighed, scooping up the dishes and heading back to the kitchen.  "Ammë is holding a party in a week or so." she mentioned, although the tone of her voice suggested she knew what his answer would be.  "I thought perhaps…"

"As wonderful as I am sure it will be, I will have to decline."  He stood, shaking crumbs off his lap, and kissed her cheek.  "We both know that I am neither needed nor wanted at your mother's parties, Nerdanya."

"Excuses, excuses." she said, but let him go anyway.

-----

"Catch, Elf."  He needn't have said it.  From long experience of throwing things at Legolas' head (mostly in jest), Gimli knew that his friend certainly didn't need the warning.  "It's a present." he added, when Legolas turned the package over in his hands, making no move to open it.  "You're supposed to take the wrapping _off_."

Arching an eyebrow, Legolas did just that, an uncharacteristically broad grin gracing his features as he examined the belt-knife.  "I think it would be a little difficult to fight Orcs with this, Gimli." he said, tracing the delicate patterns on the hilt with a mock-frown.

Typical  "When will you learn, Elf, that size is not as important as you seem to think it is? Besides, the only thing you'll be using that on around _here_ is your mother's cooking."  He could only hold the scowl for a few moments, before the chuckles started to escape.  "Happy Begetting Day, Legolas."

"Thank you, my friend."  Legolas still seemed fascinated by the knife.  "Not your usual style of work, Gimli.  Almost Noldorin, in fact."  He was grinning again now.  "Is it possible you had help with this?  Perhaps from a certain smith who has been monopolizing your time of late?"

Gimli decided not to dignify that with an answer.  "You've been busy yourself, you know."

"Mmhmm.  Tell me then, are all the stories about him true?"  Legolas sat down and leaned against a tree – it leaned back.  Gimli eyed it warily.  Aulë had warned him that Yavanna's creations were more _awake_ here than anywhere else, and he had a feeling they didn't much care for dwarves.

"I go to the forge to work, not gossip about Elves."  Curiosity was getting the better of him, though.  "What stories?"

"That he refuses to refer to the sons of his daughter as anything else other than 'my kinslaying grandchildren'? That he once threw Fëanor bodily out of his forge and lived to tell the tale?"  Legolas shrugged.  "There's as many stories about Mahtan as there are hairs on my head, and I'm sure you've heard at least _some _of them.  He's _infamous._  Not to mention quite mad."

"He's a good smith, and I don't care for Elf-gossip.  Just because he doesn't stand for any of the usual Elvish nonsense doesn't make him a fair target for every bored Vanyarin lady in Tirion to invent gossip about!"  His voice was rising as his temper worsened; let it. No one around but them and the trees, after all, and the trees weren't going to tell anyone about it.  Probably not, anyway.

Legolas shrank back a little.  "I am sorry.  I didn't realise…"

"What? That I might not find it amusing to hear you insult a friend of mine?"

"I did not realise that you accounted him a _friend_, Gimli.  Every time I've been to meet you at the forge, you are arguing with him.  Really, I did not mean to…"

Gimli rolled his eyes and hollered "You fool of an **Elf**!"  When that cut whatever apology Legolas was about to make short, he added, "I hardly ever waste time, Legolas, on arguing with those who are _not_ my friends.  Or hadn't you figured that out yet?"

"The logic of dwarves will never cease to baffle me."  And indeed Legolas did look rather confused; or as if he was trying to work out a puzzle to which he only had half the pieces.

"Luckily you have me to explain it to you." Gimli said. "Come on – let's find some ale or the closest thing they have to it here, and celebrate the bafflement of Elves."  They didn't seem to understand the joy of a good mug of ale here, but the wine wasn't half bad, at least in Gimli's estimation.

"Gimli, are you planning to use my begetting day as an excuse to get drunk?" Legolas asked.

Gimli grinned, waggling his eyebrows. "Well, I'm certainly not going to use it as an excuse to stay sober!"


End file.
